There were bodies strewn all about the island, but this part of the cliffside was mostly free of them. Walking along its edge, one found a narrow path that led upwards and away from the Temple, eventually ending at one of the highest points on this side of the island. A tree grew partly over the edge of the cliffside, erosion having exposed a mess of roots sticking out into the open air. Nevertheless, it was sturdy and the small canopy provided ample shade. Towards the base of the tree, the initials “E.S” were meticulously carved and visible, just above a branch that hung out over the dizzying precipice. At one point it had been a clever hiding place for a weapon, concealing the rifle in a place no one else would’ve thought to look, nor venture out to. The act had made the whole area feel familiar and private, and it was part of the reason the weapon’s owner opted to return here.
The path leading to the tree was marked, in its own way. Drops of blood followed an uneasy set of footprints the entire way. Stymied but never fully stopping, there were places on the path where the footprints gave way to chaotic disruptions in the sandy dirt and the occasional bloody outline of a hand.
An empty brass case streaked in black powder residue lay on the ground near the tree. The person who ejected it from the rifle didn’t have the strength to do so with much vigor, and there was a bloody thumbprint on the shell from the act of drawing it from the rifle’s action and tossing it aside.
It lay right where the uneven footprints gave way to a discarded pair of worn boots, next to which were a pair of socks that seemed especially close to disintegrating. The person they belonged to wasn’t much further away, lying up against the lone tree. Her left leg was lying outstretched, while the right was bent closer to her chest, bracing her back against the tree.
The area around the girl was strewn with her belongings. Her daypack was lying empty and open near to her legs, with the collar radar resting near the cliff’s edge atop a small pile of well-worn clothes. What little remained of her medical supplies was used up, the pieces of cloth and a few strips of gauze tape applied to the more superficial of her injuries. It wasn't nearly enough to do anything about the worst of them. The third and worst of the gunshot wounds she had received in her time on the island had taken its toll, the rifle round having punched into her shoulder, tumbling and embedding itself deep into bone.
In the heat of the moment she’d assumed it was something that would hold her back a little bit more, but that she could ultimately power through. That she hadn’t bled out immediately meant it missed any major arteries. Adrenaline did carry her most of the way. When that failed, her own stubborn nature carried her up the path to the tree. By now though, it was clear nothing was going to get her back to her feet right away, something she seemed to realize. The bandolier of cartridges for her rifle was set out next to her, as was the rifle itself. The box she’d been using to store loose nine millimetre cartridges was lying open nearby, full of enough ammunition to do what she knew she needed to do.
((Erika Stieglitz continued from Horseshoes and Hand Grenades))
Erika’s hands trembled as she pushed the small pistol cartridges into the waiting, empty magazine. If this was where she had to make her stand, they needed to be loaded and ready. There was one path to get here, it was treacherous, and there was a clear enough line of sight to take anyone who followed the trail of blood all the way up. A good place to hole up, as good as any left here.
Of course, they could declare it a danger-zone. Leave only a short window of time to escape before the collar blew. Erika tried not to think about what would happen then. A different sort of fight, she supposed. It wasn’t worth thinking about, not yet.
The magazines needed to be loaded again. Normally she’d have a reloading tool, a little piece of plastic that helped depress the magazine spring so it was easier to put the cartridges in. On the island, she’d gotten used to just forcing down the spring on her own. It left painful red marks on her hands, but it worked.
At this point she’d made it to eleven cartridges, out of thirteen. She couldn’t use both hands to push the next round into the magazine, not if she didn’t want to pass out from the pain in her shoulder. It wasn’t a through-and-through, the bullet was still stuck inside as far as she could tell. It was going to have to stay there until the terrorists provided her some medical attention. The best she was able to do was press a rolled up t-shirt against the injury. That was another reason it was hard to get the little brass cartridges into the magazine; A few of them were now bloody from handling them after tending to her shoulder, and difficult to get a decent grip on.
Erika sighed, and made another attempt to press the twelfth round into the magazine. After too much of an attempt, she was forced to let go when her body rebelled. The bullet sprang out from the top of the magazine, landing on her pant leg. Breathing through tightly gritted teeth, she glared at the tiny cartridge as it rolled over her knee and onto the ground, and then a few inches further. Enough to be just out of reach.
Sighing, she hung her head and reached up to rub her eyes, before painfully realizing she had to use the other hand to do so.
“Goddamnit.”
